The Best Travel Plan Is…
a lesson I (re-)learned in Russia
A locomotive rumbled across the countryside of birch and pine trees. It was the loudest noise in the pre-dawn landscape. The Soviet-age train snaked its way around Lake Baikal, the largest in the world by volume.
(Not true. The largest lake in the world by volume is the Caspian Sea. Good luck telling the Azerbaijanis, the Turkmens, the Iranians, the Kazakhs, and the Russians their beloved Caspian is not a sea but a lake.)
I was on the Trans-Siberian Railway, which does not exist.
It’s not like in the Swiss Alps or the South Island of New Zealand, where the train caters to tourists. The Trans-Siberian Railway is a collection of passenger stops that ends with Vladivostok in the east and Moscow in the west. There are lots of stops. It is not always scenic. It rarely was.
This morning was.
As often happens when something special nears, I was asleep.
The Russia One line runs from Moscow to Vladivostok. It is the closest service “for” the Trans-Siberian Railway: consecutive with no transfers needed, modern and comfortable, equipped with air conditioning and a higher toilet-to-passenger ratio.
I was not on the Russia One.
Not because I scrimped. There was a schedule to follow. I chose my dates, rejected an English-language agency after reading their ridiculous markup, and braved it at one of Moscow’s many train stations using my beginner Russian language skills (I had gotten a student to write the names in Russian.)
The hoard of people behind me grew impatient. I apologized. The attendant at the ticket window suggested that the unfortunate folks try another window. They did. Forty-two minutes passed. I double-checked the dates and times with the attendant. Tickets in hand, I became the proud owner of a purchased itinerary on “the Trans-Siberian Railway.”
Many of the tickets showed times in the middle of the night.
Spoiler alert: In Russia, departure and arrival times are in Moscow time regardless of origin and destination. This gets confusing in a country with eleven time zones.
I rode the subway to Gorky Park to see some local friends, one of whom explained this to me. My heart rate slowed.
Back to the rare morning. Which started with a not rare occasion.
My internal wake-up call sounded. This happens most days. I wish I could say that, somewhere in the reaches of my mind or the depths of my soul, I sensed the natural beauty waiting for me once I lifted myself from my supine position.
I needed to make a deposit in the toilet. An urgent deposit.
The urgency left; another replaced it when I witnessed the painting come to life before me: a sunrise for which more adventurous travelers than I would camp out, set the alarm, and drag themselves out of their tent at a time of day when the day has yet to begin for most people.
A product of modern society, I grabbed my phone, intent on capturing this image for… posterity? What does that mean? Would I print the photo, laminate it, frame it, and hang it up in a house I did not own so grandchildren I did not have could stare at it in awe?
My hand released the device, and my eyes observed a product of the greatest device of all.
Some of the best travel moments are those you can’t plan.
